


Sometimes I Feel I've Got to (BUM BUM)...

by dedicatedfollower467



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Big Brother Dave, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Dirk Strider and Dave's Bro Aren't the Same Person, Family, Gen, Humanstuck, POV Second Person, Running Away, Signless has a cameo but he's not a main character so I didn't tag him, protective older brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25928230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedicatedfollower467/pseuds/dedicatedfollower467
Summary: Bro is going to fucking kill you if (when, your treacherous brain insists) he catches up to you.But youhadto run. Youcouldn’tlet him keep hurting Dirk.
Relationships: Dave Strider & Dirk Strider
Comments: 18
Kudos: 94





	Sometimes I Feel I've Got to (BUM BUM)...

The rain drums against the roof of the bus stop, loud and incessant, puddling underneath the bench. The street lamp flickers in the darkness, barely illuminating the dingy little stop. Garbage gets washed away with the downpour and seems to congregate just in front of you, swirling round and round the drain that must be just below the lip of the sidewalk.

Your shoes and socks are soaked through. Your feet ache from walking so far and your back hurts from carrying Dirk most of the way after he got too tired to keep going. He’s sleeping now, curled up on the bench between your two backpacks, head pillowed on your thigh and arms wrapped around a damp horse plushie. You brush your fingers over a bandage on his cheek, trying to slow the panicked fluttering of your heart, to convince yourself that this _was_ the best decision.

Bro is going to fucking kill you if ( _when_ , your treacherous brain insists) he catches up to you.

But you _had_ to run. You _couldn’t_ let him keep hurting Dirk.

You and Dirk share a birthday— December 3rd. A week and a half ago, you turned ten and he turned six.

Bro got Dirk a Lego robotics kit, which even you have to admit was kinda neat, and he got _you_ a set of your very own turntables which was easily the most _awesome_ present you have _ever_ received in your _entire goddamn life_. You and Dirk both freaked out excitedly over your gifts in super not-cool ways, and Bro had to remind you to be tough and stoic like real men, because you were both getting too big to act like little kids.

After presents and cake and ice cream, Bro told you to head up to the roof. You’d swallowed down the disappointment, because you’d been half-hoping he’d give you a break for just one day because it was your _birthday_ and you’d been getting really good, you’d only gotten knocked off your feet once at the very end of the fight the day before and plus you’d _almost_ scored a hit on Bro. But you weren’t really expecting it because he’d never given you a day off for your birthday before, so you just nodded and grabbed your sword.

But when Dirk grabbed his new robot kit and went to go play in your room, Bro stopped him.

“You too,” he told Dirk, pointing his thumb up to the roof. “I got one more present for you.”

You remember the way ice seemed to drop into your belly, clawing its way through your insides and up your back.

Which was silly, because it was just training, and Bro wouldn’t ever seriously hurt you _or_ Dirk, it was for your own good, so that you could both be strong warriors. It just meant that Dirk was growing up, and honestly, even though he could be an annoying little brat sometimes, Dirk was kinda unfairly good at just about _everything_ , so he’d probably take to it pretty easy. There wasn’t anything for you to freak out over.

There _wasn’t._

Dirk had looked first at Bro, and then at you, and you couldn’t read your little brother’s expression.

“Okay,” Dirk said, and the three of you went up to the roof.

Your strife came first, and it was pretty much what you’d come to expect from strifing with Bro. Except that Dirk was there, watching you, and you kept thinking about him, and the thought kept distracting you. You got knocked down four times, skinning your shins and scraping your face on the rough concrete, and you failed to parry one of Bro’s blows and wound up with a big gash on your upper arm which stung like _hell_ and bled all over your favorite shirt.

Bro nodded at you, the universal Strider sign for “strife’s over.” On a normal day, you would have gone back downstairs and washed the blood out of your shirt and put peroxide and a couple bandaids over the cut.

But Dirk was still up there, so instead you clamped a hand over your arm to stop the bleeding and sat your ass down on the rooftop. Bro didn’t say anything about it, which you took as tacit permission to stick around and watch.

The first thing Bro did was hand Dirk a long, thin package, wrapped in newspaper. All three of you knew what it was.

Dirk carefully peeled the wrapping away to reveal a black-handled katana.

“Thanks, Bro,” he said, voice almost a whisper.

“Show me how you hold it,” Bro ordered.

Dirk took a stance, wrapping his hands around the hilt, and you winced, immediately seeing the errors he’d made. You almost called out to him, to tell him to correct his stance—

But Bro got there first, delivering a staggering blow onto Dirk’s blade. Dirk lost his grip, and the katana went flying, and Dirk fell backwards onto his ass. You bit your lip, watching.

“That kinda stance, you’re gonna get your ass beat,” Bro said, flat and monotone.

You're pretty sure when Bro did that to you the first time, you’d started crying, half because of the stinging pain in your hands and bottom, and half because you were so upset that you’d disappointed him. In hindsight, that shit seems pretty cringe-worthy. Fuck, you were such a crybaby.

Especially compared to Dirk, who just wiped his hands on his shorts and stood back up, walking over to retrieve his sword.

“Stand straighter,” Bro said. “Lower your center of gravity. Spread your feet wider. Not _that_ wide, dumbass, you still need to be able to move. Move your hands apart. Don’t hook your thumb under your fingers, what, do you want to break your hand?”

After a few minutes of stance correction, punctuated with the occasional blow that sent Dirk’s sword flying out of his hands, to demonstrate just how improperly he was holding it, Bro finally seemed satisfied.

“All right,” he said, settling into his own stance. “Come at me, bro.”

Dirk tightened his hands on his sword, set his mouth into a hard frown, and ran forward.

You saw the mistakes instantly, couldn’t help but cry out a warning, “Dirk, _no—!_ ”

Bro’s katana flashed in his hands.

Dirk gasped in pain as a bright red line blossomed on his shin, just below his knee. You watched in horror as blood began to trickle down his leg, pooling on the top of his crew sock before soaking in, staining the white fabric a dark, almost brown color.

Bro nodded approvingly. “You didn’t drop your sword,” he said. “Good. _Never_ let go of your weapon in a fight. But you let your guard down.”

Dirk’s shoulders and hands shook, his mouth pressed into a thin, flat line. His cheeks puffed up slightly, and you could tell that he was screwing his face up, trying not to cry.

The strife continued and you just sat there on the rooftop, watching in muted horror as Dirk messed up again and again and again, and Bro cut him down for each and every misstep. By the time Bro gave the “strife’s over” nod, Dirk had fallen nine times, and had the cuts and scrapes and blooming bruises to show for it. 

As soon as you saw Bro’s nod, you darted over to Dirk, picked him up in your arms, and lugged him downstairs to the bathroom as fast as you could, slamming and locking the door behind you.

The instant you sat him down on the lid of the toilet, Dirk burst into tears.

“Shh,” you said, rubbing soothing circles into the tops of his thighs as he hiccupped and sobbed. “Shh, hey, Dirk, it’s okay.”

“It h- _hurts_ ,” Dirk cried.

You always used to think that the phrase “broken heart” was just a saying, but you could have sworn your own chest felt like it had been snapped in two.

“I know,” you said, feeling useless. “I know. And it’s gonna hurt a lot worse before it gets better, I’m sorry.”

You helped Dirk fix up his cuts, making sure to put peroxide on the ones that looked bad and slapping bandaids and gauze everywhere you could find. He cried harder at the sting when you poured the peroxide, making you feel like a monster for hurting him. The big slice on his shin needed butterfly bandages to hold the edges together, and you almost used up a whole roll of tape keeping the gauze secure.

As you stared down at your little brother, bruised and bloodied and sliced up, rage started to build inside you.

Dirk was _six._ He was only six fucking years old, and Bro hadn’t even _tried_ to teach him the right way to fight, had just cut him up and knocked him down and left him bleeding. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t _right_ , and you had to stop this.

That was when you decided you had to run away.

You spent the next week and a half planning carefully, waiting for the opportune moment. Every day, Bro took both of you up to the roof, and beat the shit out of Dirk (and you, but you’re used to it, so it didn’t matter), and you took Dirk back down to the bathroom and cleaned and bandaged the cuts and told him you’d make it all okay. Every day, you watched for Bro to make just one mistake.

Your opportunity came one night when Bro came home early from a DJ gig with a twelve-pack of beers and one of his friends from the nightclub. He’d snapped at you and Dirk to stay in your room and be fucking _quiet_ until he said you could come out,so that he and his friend could hang out in the living room. Dirk fell asleep at his usual time, but you stayed up, listening to Bro and his buddy get wasted on the other other side of the door, smelling the tell-tale stink of pot.

You might have fallen asleep yourself, because it was pretty late at night by the time Bro and his friend stopped making noise, but you knew this might be your _only_ chance. You waited in breathless silence for half an hour after they fell asleep, just to be _sure._

Then you sprang into action.

You grabbed Dirk’s and your backpacks, opened your closet, and started to stuff clothes and food from your stash inside, as much as you could. Then, last minute, you changed your mind, and pulled out enough stuff so that you could fit Dirk’s Lego robotics kit into your backpack, too.

Then came the heartstopping task of sneaking out into the living room.

Thankfully, Bro and his friend really were dead asleep, mostly naked and laying on top one another on the folded-down futon with a few blankets pulled over them both. It barely even registered as something sexual; you were too relieved that they’d taken their pants off, because that would make this next part way easier.

You rummaged around quietly in the mess on the floor until you found Bro’s pants, pulled out his wallet, and snagged all the cash inside, stuffing it into your own pocket. After a moment’s hesitation, you decided to do the same with the dark-haired stranger’s wallet, because you didn’t know how much you’d need _or_ how much you had, and you weren’t gonna turn on a light to count bills. Your conscience twinged at stealing from some guy who probably didn’t even deserve it, but you would need money if you were gonna take care of yourself and Dirk.

Then you snuck back into the room you shared with Dirk and gently shook him awake.

“Huh?” he mumbled as he woke up, and you shhed him.

“Stay quiet,” you whispered. “We’re leaving. Put your shoes on. Bring Black Beauty with you.”

And then you’d grabbed his hand, and led him through the living room, quiet as mice, before unlocking the front door and taking off into the night.

You didn’t dare sit and wait at the bus stop closest to the apartment, because what if Bro woke up in the middle of the night, and realized you were gone, and came after you? So you walked as far and as fast as you could, stopping to pick Dirk up and carry him half the way.

Which leaves you here, sitting at a bus stop in the pouring rain in the middle of the night, trying not to panic over the possibility that Bro might come find you again.

At least you left your phone behind, so he can’t use it to track you. Of course, that also means you have no idea what time of night it is, or when the next bus will come.

You’ve almost nodded off when the bus finally rolls up to the stop, sending a wave of water up over your shoes and into your socks.

You stand quickly, debate about waking Dirk up, and decide to just hoist him up over your shoulder, letting him sleep a bit longer. You grab both backpacks and hurry up to the open doors, trying not to _look_ like a runaway kid.

Between your dark skin, bleach-blond hair, and your height, people tend to assume you’re older than you actually are, and you try to take advantage of that, standing up as tall as you can and deepening your voice a bit.

“One child and one adult ticket, please,” you say, pulling a five dollar bill out of your pocket. At ten, you’re still young enough to get the cheaper child ticket, but you’re trying to look older and more responsible than you actually are, like you’re a teenager who knows where they’re going.

The woman driving the bus raises her eyebrows. “Sorry, kid, it’s exact change only,” she says.

“Shit,” you say, staring down at the bill. “I don’t have any quarters or anything. Can’t you just take the whole five and keep the change as a tip?”

The bus lady sighs and shakes her head, waving you on board. “Just get in,” she says. “I’m not taking money from a pair of lost kids.”

“We’re not lost,” you say, but you step into the bus anyway, settling down with Dirk in your lap. He’s still fast asleep, resting his head on your chest, and you find yourself rubbing his back soothingly.

Now that you’re on the bus, some of your anxiety is starting to simmer down. You’re in a moving vehicle, which means Bro won’t be able to catch up right away, and he doesn’t have any idea where you’re going. If you’re lucky, he doesn’t even know yet that you’re not in the apartment.

Dawn light starts to illuminate the murky, overcast sky just as you near your stop— the one you’ve been planning for a week and a half. You reach up and tug on the line, hearing the little chime as the sign illuminates for a stop request. You stand, shifting a still-sleeping Dirk in your grip, and head for the doors.

They don’t open.

You look back at the bus driver, who is frowning at you. “Kid, this is the train station,” she says.

“Yeah,” you say, putting every ounce of _duh_ you possibly can into your voice. “I _know_ that.”

She sighs heavily. “You boys runaways?” she asks. “You in some kind of trouble?”

“ _No_ ,” you say, although now your heart is pounding in your chest.

You thought, once you got on the bus, you’d be _safe_. You didn’t expect that there would be people who might try to _stop_ you from getting away from Bro. Shit, what if she calls the cops on you? What if they take you down to the jail and Bro’s there filing a missing persons report? What if Bro’s friend reports your _theft?_ Fuck, you’re a brown kid carrying stolen fucking money in your pocket. Your palms start to sweat just thinking about it.

The bus driver is giving you a _look_ , and shit, she’s like two seconds away from calling the cops on you, fuck fuck fuck.

You gotta think fast.

“We’re visiting our mom,” you say. “She lives in New York, and the only train we can afford is scheduled for super early, and our dad works nights and couldn’t get time off to come with us and we don’t have a car.”

She doesn’t really look like she buys it, but she sighs and presses the button that opens the doors. You hop out onto the pavement below, splashing in the rain.

“Uh,” you say, turning back around to look at her. “Hey, thanks for not charging us.”

The driver waves her hand. “Yeah, just stay safe, okay kid?”

“Yeah.”

The bus pulls away with a spray of water, and you stand for a second, just watching her go and thinking.

You thought your plan out as far as “get to the station and catch a train out of Houston.” You… did _not_ plan on _where_ you were going to go. You just kinda blurted out New York because it was the first place that popped into your mind.

But… Rose lives in New York. Somewhere in New York, anyway. Maybe that’s a good destination.

Dirk squirms in your arms, woken up by the rain, and starts making little uncomfortable noises. You heft him up a little higher on your shoulder and march inside, pretending like you know what you’re doing better than you actually do. Once inside, you set Dirk down on the floor, but you make sure to keep a firm grip on his hand. You do, however, hand him his backpack.

You walk over to the ticket window and finger the cash in your pocket hoping, _praying_ , it will be enough.

“Two tickets for New York City, please,” you say to the man behind the counter.

He gives you a look almost exactly like the one the bus driver did. “How old are you, son?” he asks.

You swallow. “Fourteen,” you lie, hoping he buys it.

Your heart almost stops beating when the ticket guy starts to shake his head, gesturing to Dirk. “I’m sorry, son, but children under the age of 12 can’t travel on the train unless accompanied by someone age 17 or older.”

You feel weightless, like you’re falling, the way you feel when Bro gets the drop on you and starts to throw you down the stairs.

“What? But— But we have to—”

“There’s clearly been a misunderstanding,” the man says, gently. “Why don’t you head over there to customer service and call your parents and let them know what happened, okay?”

“Y-yeah. Okay.”

You turn away from the ticket counter in a daze. Dirk squeezes your hand.

“Dave?” he says. “What’s going on?”

“I fucked up, Dirk,” you whisper, feeling your throat close up. “I really fucked up.”

Bro’s going to _kill_ you.

No, okay, you can salvage this. You _can._ You can, like, beg on street corners and shit. Hell, you were gonna end up begging on street corners _anyway_ , weren’t you? Where the hell did you think you were going to go? The fucking _circus?_ Kids can’t just _run away_ in this day and age, Strider, you fucking _dumbass._ What were you _thinking?_

Your hands are shaking, and you drop into a crouch beside Dirk, trying to take deep breaths, trying to calm yourself down. You _can’t_ look weird, you _can’t_ break down in public, you _can’t_ draw attention to yourself.

This was the stupidest plan in the _fucking_ world, Bro’s going to find you and he’s going to _kill_ you.

You’re sitting there muttering to yourself, little Dirk looking more and more confused and upset by the second, when a shadow looms over you.

You whip to your feet without thinking, whirling around, hand going to grab the hilt of the sword that _isn’t there_ and fuck, Bro’s going to _kill you—_

It’s not Bro. You let out a half-sigh of relief at that fact as you assess the guy standing in front of you, relaxing out of your strife stance.

He’s a tall guy, adult but fairly young still, not much older than Bro is, probably, with medium-brown skin and loosely curled black hair. However, the most notable thing about him is that he’s wearing a black button-up shirt tucked into his waistband, which isn’t all that unusual, but his proportions make him look like he’s wearing his dark gray pants all the way up to his _armpits_ , which is kinda funny. He’s also got a little white tab in his collar.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, lifting his hands non-threateningly and taking a step back. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

“We’re fine,” you say on autopilot, pulling Dirk a little closer to you.

The man cocks his head a little bit. “Are you sure? You seemed… pretty upset there.”

“I… it’s… I didn’t know the rule about unaccompanied minors,” you admit. “We’re supposed to go to New York, but…” You shrug and gesture at Dirk.

“Do you need to call your parents?” the man asks, rummaging around in his pocket.

“No!” you say. When the man glances up at your sharp outburst, you clear your throat and glance away. “No, it’s fine, we’ll figure it out,” you mutter at the floor.

“Hmm.” The man cocks his head, and you can feel him scrutinizing you. Suddenly, you are very conscious of your bruises and scrapes, the bandages and gauze wrapped around Dirk’s little limbs, and the black eye Bro gave you a few days ago.

Fuck. He’s totally gonna call the cops _._

“Well,” the man finally says. “What if you’re _not_ unaccompanied?”

You blink and glance up at his almost conspiratorial smile. He fucking _winks_ at you.

“You can call me Pastor Vantas,” he says, “I just so happen to be heading to New York myself, and I’d be _happy_ to look after you on the journey while your parents are... _unavailable_.”

He gets it.

Oh thank _Christ_ , he gets it.

“Thanks,” you say. “Um. I’m Dave, and this is Dirk.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Pastor Vantas says. “Let’s go buy those tickets.”

An hour later, the three of you board the train together. You pick a row and have Dirk take the window seat, and Pastor Vantas ends up sitting in the row across from you facing backward. Pretty much as soon as he sits down, he pulls a book out of his luggage and begins reading, barely glancing at the two of you.

The train starts, and as the thrum of the engine rattles your seat, you lean back with a sigh of relief, watching Dirk kick his feet and stare out the window at the cars passing by.

You did it. You got Dirk out of Bro’s clutches.

The guy’s gonna have to do some serious fuckin’ legwork if he wants to find you in New York.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently considering this a completed one-shot, because I'm _already_ deep in the shit with a 150k+ ongoing Homestuck fic series and I'm not starting another one right now.
> 
> Buuuuuuuuut I might potentially be persuaded to write more at some point eventually if there's interest.


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